Exhausted from the weight of all the words
the poet settles in, enjoys the birds
as they begin to sing in the rising sun
and he feels the joy of finishing what he’d begun.
He didn’t swing a bat or kick a ball.
He didn’t slap a puck or scrap and brawl.
He simply played with words and so he knows
that he performed the work of his great heroes.
And so, like them when they passed some great test
he burrows in his blankets. He’s earned his rest.
All like him, each poet left still standing fiercely shows
that like the old ones, there are new poet heroes.